


Demeter Rising

by LingeringLilies



Series: Peaceverse [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Adoption, Angst, Babies, Canon Divergence, Children, F/F, Family, Happy Ending, PTSD, guess what they live
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-22
Updated: 2016-04-22
Packaged: 2018-06-03 17:09:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6619150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LingeringLilies/pseuds/LingeringLilies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke and Lexa have to travel back to TonDC for the first time in almost a decade. What they find there changes their relationship forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Demeter Rising

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm trying a little something new stylistically... I hope you all enjoy.
> 
> This story deals with (what I hope is an accurate depiction of) PTSD. There is hope in the way it plays out.
> 
> Most of my oneshots fall into a loose canon-divergent "series" of sorts, but they all stand on their own.
> 
> As always with me, there's a happy ending.

It’s the first time they’ve been back to TonDC together since the missile. It’s been almost a decade, most of it peaceful. The clans remain united and cooperative, for the most part. But every so often drifters will attack one of the smaller villages in Lexa’s domain, and everyone will be reminded that peace has never been ironclad. Little uprisings provoke anxious unrest, and Lexa must go to her people, offering condolences, reminding them of the way things once were, assuring them they remain under her protection and care.

Clarke insists on joining her, justifying her inclusion in the mission with her healing abilities. She offers to care for the wounded, to provide grace, to give last rights to anyone who cannot be saved. Lexa does not argue. She is in a hurry to get to her people.

She realizes perhaps she should have argued when she sees her wife’s face as they approach the village. The smoke rising in the distance is enough to cause a shift in Clarke’s demeanor.

They both remember the last time, the choice they didn’t want to make, the sacrifices they demanded of innocents.

Clarke puts on her warrior face.

(Lexa sees the crack.)

It doesn’t matter that most of the village is still standing. The pillaging is obvious, the distress palpable. It is a reminder of the chaos that used to pervade the whole of Lexa’s domain. Stepping into a pocket of it takes her right back to her early years as commander.

(Ten years is forever in the life of a commander.)

(Even forever does not erase memory.)

They dismount and Lexa rushes to meet with the village leaders, inquiring about the attackers, what markings they bore, what weapons they used, what they took. It is effortless to slide back into the skin of a general in combat, easy to know what steps to take. She orders scouts be sent after the attackers to collect information about larger uprisings she must be prepared for.

She must always be prepared.

Once she has collected all the information she can, she goes to address the villagers. Hand on her dagger as though it were a scepter, she keeps her chin stiff, her eyes steady as she walks through the village surveying the damage. Her healers are busy in the houses and huts, tending to wounded, offering words of reassurance.

(Lexa keeps her dagger sheathed so it doesn’t accidentally slice through the tissue-thin settling around her.)

She addresses the wounded, offers comfort to the grieving, and places a steady hand on the heads of frightened children. But she doesn’t get too close to anyone. She can’t. Closeness is not something Heda is afforded.

(With Clarke, Lexa is afforded everything.)

She is almost done making her rounds when she realizes she hasn’t seen Clarke in any of the houses she’s entered. She’s about to return to their horses to see if Clarke is waiting for her when she hears it.

A soft wail paired with a tiny, shrill cry.

Lexa’s heart quickens, and her feet carry her toward the hut the noise is coming from.

She opens the door, flinging light into the dark space. Clarke is huddled near the ground, clutching a bundle to her chest. Her head whips up and she glares at Lexa, face red and smeared with tears.

It takes Lexa a second to see the bodies beside Clarke, gray and lifeless. A man’s blank face stares up at the ceiling, while a woman’s glassy stare bores across the pool of blood they lay in. The woman is draped in front of a cradle. The cradle almost seems an altar.

The scene is devastating, perhaps more than a field strewn with hundreds of dead soldiers. The couple died senselessly, defenseless. They had nothing of value other than their lives.

The blood is thickened and sticky. Clarke’s shoes are soaked in it as she whimpers and moans with grief, clutching the baby to her chest.

“Clarke…” Lexa starts, taking a tentative step toward her wife.

Clarke recoils, turning away from Lexa, hiding the infant from her. Her cries double.

Lexa moves toward Clarke, shoes pressing into the bloody dirt, to press a gentle hand to her wife’s shoulder.

(Touch has always been the surest way to soothe Clarke.)

But this time, Clarke breaks. She shakes, shoulders and arms and legs all trembling as she struggles to stay crouched. Her face twists in agony, and she starts coughing out words that don’t make sense.

 _It was my fault!_  she wails. _I could have helped them, could have warned them! They could have escaped! But I didn’t and they’re_ dead!

Lexa’s hand grips Clarke, begging her to stay grounded.

“You could not have saved them, niron,” Lexa hushes. She hears more ice in her voice than she intends; that is always the case during conflict.

 _I could_ , Clarke whimpers. _I could have saved them._

She turns her attention to the tiny child in her arms now, no more than a few weeks old. It is helpless, distressed, and alone.

(Lexa remembers that feeling.)

(She resents the child for the memory.)

Lexa has never seen Clarke unmoored like this when duty calls. She finds Clarke’s unraveling more unsettling than the bodies beside her.

She must get Clarke into the light, back into reason and duty. Something about the spareness of the hut, the macabre placement of bodies before the cradle must have addled her.

“We must go,” Lexa says, trying to urge Clarke up.

Lexa can do little else.

Clarke shakes her head, curling around the baby in her arms.

“Clarke,” Lexa says, more insistent. “There are people who need our help.”

Clarke is torn for a moment, looking down at the bundle of blankets, frowning and pouting, before she stands, adjusting the infant against her chest. She swallows. “Okay.”

Lexa knew duty would bring her back. Clarke thrives when she is serving others.

Relieved, Lexa reaches to take the baby from Clarke’s arms. She feels as though it’s possessed her wife, rendering her unable to think clearly. When Clarke twists away, refusing to give up the child, the feeling grows stronger.

Out in the light, Clarke collects herself. She sees the other healers huddled over the injured, wrapping bandages, setting braces, offering herbs. Her stride lengthens, her purpose clarifying.

She goes to the medical supply kit, taking out a long bandage. Without setting the baby down for a moment, she ties a sling across her chest, binding the child to her. Once the child is secure, she wastes no time in tending to others, leaning over the wounded, brow knitting in compassion and concern.

She is Clarke again.

Except she is not.

(The little bundle strapped to her chest irks Lexa more than she can understand.)

Night falls. Lexa declares they will stay in the village to provide protection until the wounded are stable and scouts have determined the pillagers are nowhere nearby. They are given shelter for the night in the house of the village’s leader, Tevolo, and his wife Rava.

In the somber candlelight after dinner, Lexa watches Clarke tend to the infant, changing its diaper, trying to hush it to sleep. Rava offers to nurse the baby, having not yet weaned her youngest. Rava holds the infant her breast, rocking gently, singing a song Lexa almost remembers from before her days as commander. Lexa sees a pang of jealousy on Clarke’s face.

(Of all the uncertainty the attack on TonDC has brought forth, Lexa fears the look on Clarke’s face the most.)

The morning brings news from the scouts. The vandals have been captured and are being taken to Polis for public execution. Lexa feels a swell of confidence as she relays the information to the people of TonDC, inviting them to join her in Polis to witness the executions and stay the night as her guests. A few villagers take her up on the offer, but most are too tired or bereaved to make the journey.

Clarke is by her side as she finishes her address, giving a reverent nod before turning toward their horses.

Lexa should not be surprised to see the child still strapped to Clarke’s chest as they walk away, but she is.

“Clarke, the child must stay here. With its people.”

Clarke fixes her with a look. It is angry, low, and burning.

She has never looked more like Wanheda.

Lexa is rendered mute.

No one from the village says anything as Clarke mounts her horse. Lexa follows, eager to leave. She doesn’t look at Clarke until they are miles away from the village.

It’s such a small bundle, it’s almost concealed under the cloak Clarke wears. But Lexa sees it. It’s a gash across her chest.

Lexa wonders how much further Clarke will unravel.

When they return to Polis, the first thing Clarke does is send one of her handmaidens to find a wet nurse. Lexa knows she must address Clarke’s behavior before she does anything else impulsive.

“Clarke, this child is not your responsibility.”

Clarke places a hand on the child’s head in the sling, almost hissing at Lexa. “She _is_ my responsibility.”

Lexa flinches, wondering how many fractures exist under Clarke’s surface she has yet to see.

“No…” Lexa says. The word wavers. “There are many orphans of war. We will find a place for her where she will be cared for adequately.”

“ _Adequately_ ,” Clarke mocks. “She had a _home_ , Lexa. She had parents who loved her and died trying to protect her. And we couldn’t stop it!” She’s crying again, hugging the baby to her. The baby begins to cry too.

Lexa is perplexed. Of all the brutality they’ve seen, this one seems to have stuck to Clarke like a burr.

“We _knew_ , Lexa! We knew and we didn’t warn them!”

Lexa frowns. There was no way they could have anticipated the raid on TonDC. “What are you--”

“The missile!” Clarke cries.

She dissolves into tears, almost collapsing. Lexa rushes forward to catch her.  

“ _It was all I could see and hear the whole time we were there_.”

Clarke is curling into herself, seeming to be dragged toward the floor by the weight on her chest. Lexa manages to scoop it out of the sling, holding it awkwardly away from her body, ferrying it to a guard outside her door before rushing back to tend to her wife.

Clarke is sitting on the edge of the bed heaving now, deep, wracking breaths that Lexa has never seen her take.

“Clarke…” she says. She says Clarke’s name when she doesn’t know what else to say. It has a grounding effect on her, but not on Clarke.

Lexa has heard of this before: warriors jumping between time and space, thinking they are in battle years into peacetime. Lexa has experienced it a few times in sleep, but she is always grounded by her wife’s warm body beside her when she wakes. Clarke is awake now, and Lexa doesn’t know what to do other than be close to her.

She braces Clarke’s shoulders, trying to prop her up.

“We did what we had to do.”

Clarke shakes her head desperately for a long, agonizing minute before she calms enough to say, “No one should ever have to.”

(No one should ever feel the weight of lost life on their shoulders.)

((They bear it so others don’t have to.))

“I need her,” Clarke shudders, seeming to realize the baby is gone.

“She’s okay,” Lexa assures her. “She’s with my guards.”

“I _need_ her,” Clarke says again.

Lexa is perplexed by the fixation Clarke has on the child.

(She’s used to being the only person Clarke needs.)

Lexa takes an impatient breath. “You cannot just take her from her home.”

“But I did. And no one cared.”

“Do you think anyone would dare voice an objection while I was there with you?”

Clarke gapes at her.

Lexa knows she hit a nerve. She softens.

“I know your intentions are good. But you have to think about what this means in the long term.”

Clarke’s face goes blank for a minute, then crinkles with traces of hurt. “Do you think I haven’t?”

Lexa stumbles. She had reduced Clarke’s behavior to a fit of madness, to the sudden unleashing of decade-old demons.

She forgot to account for Clarke’s heart.

She always forgets.

(She really is a fool to forget so often.)

Clarke straightens up, suddenly menacing. “This is one thing I can do,” she says, pointing a finger toward her own chest. “One act of penance for what we did. We made more hard choices in a week than most people make in a lifetime, and this –  _this_ is how I want to atone. This child. She had her life ripped away from her. Just like I did. Just like _you_ did. And now we have a chance to raise her, knowing what that’s like, in _safety_.”

Safety.

 _And love_.

(Lexa hears it even though Clarke doesn’t say it.)

Lexa has no response.

Clarke rushes from the room and Lexa is left in the rubble.

* * *

Clarke doesn’t have nightmares the way Lexa used to. Instead, she leaves the waking present and ventures back to times and places where Lexa can’t follow. Lexa can almost smell smoke and blood on her when it happens; the sight of Clarke’s distressed face is enough to recall every sense memory of her own battles past. Lexa feels frozen, worried she’ll be dragged into the undertow of Clarke’s break.

She tries to comfort her, but she doesn’t know how.

She goes to the oldest, most respected healer in the village, Pasha, to seek counsel. She begrudges the position Clarke has put her in; she has never sought counsel without any inkling of the right course. She wishes she could disguise herself as she walks through the streets toward Pasha’s house, worrying Clarke might have another break in her absence. She worries everything is more fragile than it seems; the stone and mortar of Polis might have been dust in another reality.

Pasha is an elder, retired from her work save for the occasional midwifery call. Her skin is wrinkled and soft, her hair a soft silvery gray drawn into a knot at the base of her neck. She wears robes dyed purple and gray, and moves with quiet grace. She acts as grandmother to the many children of Polis orphaned by the wars fought before peacetime.

In another life, perhaps she would have been a grandmother to Lexa.

Pasha welcomes her into her house, sealing her in the dim light, offering her tea and fruit and cured meats. Lexa is too anxious to accept more than a cup of tea; she worries Clarke will feel betrayed by her seeking counsel with one of her teachers and mentors.

Pasha observes Lexa’s agitation with gentleness and reverence.

“You are worried about Clarke,” she says quietly, bony hand stirring honey into her tea.

Lexa swallows and nods.

“She has become… haunted,” Lexa says, unsure how else to describe the terrors she witnesses from the outside of Clarke’s mind. “We went to a village that was bombed shortly after we met. Ever since, she hasn’t been herself.”

Pasha gives a slow, deep nod. It is silent, save for the noise of Pasha’s spoon hitting the walls of her cup.

“I don’t understand why it happened now,” Lexa continues. “She’s seen so much, and we’ve had years of peacetime…”

“Demons come back when we are strong enough to fight them off, Heda,” Pasha says gently.

Lexa sits with that thought, wondering what might have changed in Clarke recently to make her strong enough for such powerful demons.

Moreover, she wonders if she herself will ever be strong enough to fight the demons her past self may have provoked.

“How do I aid her?” Lexa asks.

“Remind her it’s over, that she’s safe now.”

“I do that,” Lexa says. She’s pretty sure she does, at least.

“Help her see her true surroundings. Touch the arm of a chair, feel the texture of a stone, describe the light coming through the window.”

Lexa gives a fearful nod. “Anything else?”

Pasha gives a soft, sorrowful smile.

“Love her as you always have,” she says softly. “She draws as much strength from your love as you from hers.”

Lexa is unaccustomed to people speaking of the love between her and Clarke. People know, of course. They understand and accept that she and Clarke are bound together for life. But they don’t speak of it, especially not to her face.

(The bond is so sacred Lexa can barely speak of it herself.)

Lexa reaches for her tea and sips, feeling it burn down her throat. She had hoped for more guidance, but knows that, as with many things, there are no perfect answers or solutions. She must do the best she can with what she has.

“Is there something else?” Pasha asks, tilting her head forward with warm concern.

Lexa nods. “There’s… a child.”

Pasha’s eyes widen for a moment, then settle back into their soft wisdom.

“A child orphaned by the raid on TonDC. Clarke hasn’t been able to put her down for more than a few minutes since we returned.”

Pasha straightens up, then settles back into her chair.

“She’s convinced she must raise it as an act of penance or atonement for crimes committed years ago. I’ve never seen her so fixated on something.”

“And you object to her raising it?”

Lexa purses her lips. She doesn’t outright object to it, but she questions Clarke’s ability to manage her demons while she is so focused on someone else.

Pasha looks down at her tea, eyes far away for a moment.

“Do you believe in predetermined bonds between those not bound by blood?” Pasha asks.

“I don’t know.”

Pasha looks surprised. “Not even your bond with Clarke?”

Lexa thinks of the star that came crashing down to earth in the midst of a war, in the midst of so much unrest, in the midst of her legacy’s ultimate test.

“Yes,” she says quietly.

(If anything is predetermined, it is her love for Clarke.)

Pasha says nothing, lifting her tea to her lips, eying Lexa softly.

Lexa feels something settle in her chest. It’s heavy, but at least it rests.

* * *

She returns to the tower, determined to honor the bond.

The infant is with the wet nurse, and Clarke is staring out at the darkening sky, arms crossed. She looks distant, but not tortured. Lexa walks up behind her, trying to project whatever warmth she has hidden toward her wife.

She loves Clarke, and she will always love Clarke, and she is sorry for not showing it at every possible chance.

She puts her hands on Clarke’s arms, gentle as to not startle her. When Clarke turns, giving a preoccupied glance, Lexa stares into her, an asking look that requests Clarke’s attention. Clarke turns, unfolding her arms.

Lexa envelops her, saying nothing aloud. She leans forward, kissing her, pressing her faith and adoration into Clarke’s mouth.

Clarke softens, welcoming Lexa’s touch for the first time in days.

Lexa begins to remove Clarke’s clothes, and Clarke follows suit, stripping Lexa of her garments, until they are both naked, both touching, united. They sink into their bed wordlessly, gracefully, gratefully. Lexa touches Clarke with reverence, as though her utmost gentleness and care might vanquish Clarke’s demons.

Clarke leans into every touch, as though she was waiting for Lexa to reach for her. She responds in kind, and they end the night curled around each other, breathless, sweaty, and finally calm.

The morning light soaks into Lexa’s eyelids, and she wishes she could stay in bed longer. She reaches for Clarke, hoping the spell she cast on her overnight has held, hoping Clarke is still soothed and happy.

But the bed is empty, and her hand grasps nothing but furs.

Before she can open her eyes, she hears the shuffling of feet moving toward her. Perhaps Clarke is bringing her a glass of water and will perch on the bed with an adoring smile as she used to during the early days of their lovemaking, when they would wake parched from head to toe, thirst unquenchable by water or lips.

Lexa keeps her eyes closed, waiting for the dip of the mattress.

Instead she feels a warm weight on her bare chest, silk-soft skin and a living tremble pressed against her.

She opens her eyes in alarm, knowing what she’ll find.

On her chest is the child, curled on her stomach with her tiny head and dark curls pressed almost to Lexa’s nose. It makes soft sucking noises as tiny fingers scratch into Lexa’s skin.

Clarke stands over them, beaming. “Her name is Ayla.”

Lexa tenses and feels her heart quicken, unsure how to respond. She looks down at the small limbs curled into the tiny, diaper-clad body. The child’s skin is dark and warm as it sticks to her in her sleep-damp haze.

Clarke sits on the edge of the bed and Lexa feels the comforting dip. “On the Ark we had one tiny tree. We called it the Last Tree. It served as a symbol of hope for our future. People donated some of their rationed water to keep it alive.”

Lexa looks between the strange thing resting on her chest and Clarke. Clarke smiles down at them as the baby moves in shallow breaths and tiny jerks.

Lexa looks at the baby too as its tiny, paper-thin eyelids droop and eventually close.

Clarke’s smile widens. “She likes you,” she whispers.

Lexa feels something cold rush through her. It’s fear, she realizes. This small, unassuming creature has rendered her wife almost mad. She does not know what this child will do to her, what it will make her feel.

Resentment.

Anger.

Fear.

(Love.)

She thinks of Pasha and what she had advised Lexa to do.

“You know it’s over, right, Clarke?”

Clarke quirks her head over her smile.

“The war,” Lexa says, her voice sticking from sleep.

A shadow passes over Clarke’s face. She reaches for the baby, lifting her off Lexa as though Lexa had insulted her.

“Of course I know it’s over.”

She holds the baby to her shoulder and leaves the room.

Lexa is left with a patch of cold on her chest and a soul-deep ache for her wife.

* * *

Clarke doesn’t try to force the child on Lexa again. Lexa watches her closely as she interacts with Ayla, seeing how Clarke’s face lifts and lightens whenever she sees Ayla looking at her, whenever she is able to soothe her as she fusses. Ayla becomes more docile, easier to comfort as days go by. Clarke learns to stroke one finger gently down Ayla’s forehead to hush her to sleep. She stares at the baby with reverence and joy Lexa hasn’t seen on Clarke’s face often.

They are eating supper together, enjoying the quiet in the dim light. Ayla sleeps in a basket on the floor by Clarke’s feet. Lexa is almost accustomed to it, though she hasn’t warmed to the child. She is about to inquire of Clarke’s plans for the following day when a great racket sounds from the corridor. A servant has dropped a tray, sending dishes and cups crashing to the stone floor.

Clarke leaps out of her chair, face frantic, hands raised to her face. Her eyes go wild and she stiffens, yelping.

Lexa darts out of her seat, seeing the telltale signs Clarke has been ripped from reality: the wide eyes that don’t settle, the hitched shoulders, the trembling. She puts her hands on her wife, steadying her.

“You’re here, Clarke. You’re with me, in our home. We’re eating dinner. No one is attacking us.”

Clarke struggles to come back. “It’s… _happening…_ ”

“It’s over, Clarke. You’re safe now.”

Lexa sees a tear in the panic. She says it again.

“It’s over. You’re safe now.”

Clarke settles a little more.

“It’s over. You’re safe now.”

Finally Clarke is able to sit in her chair, slumping forward.

Lexa kneels before her, taking Clarke’s face in her hands.

“You’re safe now, love,” she whispers.

Clarke sighs and nods, pressing her cheek into Lexa’s hand. She closes her eyes and breathes deeply, exhausted. Her body is still except for her shaky breathing and the hand closest to the baby.

Lexa knows what she wants.

Hesitantly, Lexa slides her hands off Clarke’s face and leans down to the basket. She looks at Ayla, sleeping so peacefully, unaware of the war that just flashed through Clarke.

Lexa isn’t sure if she’s doing it right, but she lifts the baby out of her basket and holds her up to Clarke. Clarke’s eyes fly open and flash with surprise as she receives the little bundle. She draws Ayla to her so naturally, so maternally, Lexa feels a flicker of wonder and fear.

Clarke holds the baby to her but doesn’t break Lexa’s gaze. She reaches forward with her free hand, grasping for Lexa’s.

Lexa lets herself be drawn into Clarke, until she is leaning against Clarke’s knees. Clarke curls her arm around Lexa’s shoulder and holds her there as she turns her gaze to the infant.

Lexa looks at Ayla. She is so small, so fragile. Ayla gives a shudder in her sleep, and as she sighs, a weight seems to lift from all three of them. Lexa thinks she might understand a thread of Clarke’s affection for her; Ayla is unmarred and innocent of all the things Clarke has done, ignorant of suffering and malice. Alya trusts that Clarke will care for her.

(Just as Lexa has learned to trust that Clarke will care for her.)

Clarke’s eyes grow teary, and a single silver track runs down her cheek.

 _Thank you_ , she whispers, voice gone from emotion.

Lexa isn’t sure how Clarke knows Lexa has decided to allow Ayla to stay, but she realizes she has.

Ayla is Clarke’s now.

(Lexa hopes Clarke is still hers too.)

* * *

Lexa travels alone to TonDC. She doesn’t tell Clarke where she is going, fearing Clarke might insist on accompanying her. Lexa rides with only a pair of guards, leaving her ceremonial gear behind. She enters the village quietly, not wanting to alert anyone to her presence. She goes to Tevolo and Rava’s house, knocking quietly. The are alarmed to see her, but welcome her when she asks to confer with them in their house. They offer her the seat at the head of their table.

She asks about the child, about her origins and if anyone in the village would claim her. Tevolo and Rava glance at each other, looking sorrowful, saying the child’s parents had been very poor and the sole surviving relative is an old blind woman. Lexa pauses, then asks the question from which she knows there is no turning back.

“Would anyone object to Clarke raising the child as her own?”

Tevolo and Rava look stunned. _No, Heda_ , they hush. _Any child would be blessed to be raised beside you._

Lexa swallows, wondering if she will ever be more than a person beside the child.

* * *

Ayla spends her nights in the nursery with the wet nurse. Clarke doesn’t ask that she be brought in. Lexa is grateful to know their bed remains their own, that she won’t be woken from the sanctuary of sleep by cries she can do nothing to soothe.

Clarke is tender with her again, making love to her quietly on nights she can feel Lexa needs it. Lexa wonders if the sweetness and generosity Clarke pours into her are a reward for tolerating Ayla’s presence.

(She feels guilty for it.)

* * *

Lexa is awoken one night by Clarke thrashing and sweating beside her. Clarke wakes up, taking gasping breath after gasping breath.

Lexa watches her, waiting to see what she will do.

Clarke puts a hand to her chest, staring up at the ceiling as she takes frantic breaths. Lexa reaches across the sheets, putting her hand on Clarke’s arm.

“You’re safe, niron,” Lexa mumbles. “It’s not happening anymore.”

Clarke exhales, eyes fluttering closed again.

“It’s over,” Clarke says. She breathes a few more times, air slowing, then rolls toward Lexa, burying her face in Lexa’s chest. She stays there, still for long minutes, and Lexa rests her hand on Clarke’s head, cradling her.

They breathe in unison, settling into the silence of their room. Outside, Polis is still.

The night used to be Lexa’s loneliest, most frightful time. Lexa thinks about how Clarke changed the moonlight for her, how stillness became peaceful beside each other.

Clarke lifts her head and kisses Lexa, first softly, then deeply, as though asking for something.

Lexa is attuned to a worry gnawing at Clarke. She can feel it, the same way she can feel the tickle of Clarke’s hair on her cheek.

“What is it, love?” Lexa murmurs.

Clarke lets out a final sigh. “Can I get her?”

Lexa shifts her legs. “Are you worried about her?”

Clarke hesitates, then shakes her head. “I just miss her.”

Lexa can’t deny Clarke comfort.

“Okay.”

She tries not to stiffen as Clarke lifts off her and sweeps down the hall to collect the child. She misses Clarke’s presence immediately, skin feeling cold, bed feeling empty. She wonders if this is how it will be until the child is old enough to distance herself from Clarke.

Clarke returns, softer around the edges than before, holding the baby in the crescent of her arm. The child is sleeping and doesn’t seem to mind the jostling as Clarke settles back into the bed, a soft smile on her face. Lexa expects Clarke to turn away and curl around the baby, but instead she places the infant beside Lexa, so close that Lexa goes rigid, not wanting to jostle or disturb her.

Clarke wiggles close, putting her arm over the child, resting her hand on Lexa. She props her head up, beaming down at both of them.

It is a look of total adoration.

It becomes Clarke.

_Ai hod yu in._

Lexa isn’t sure who Clarke is speaking to.

(She hopes it’s her.)

Lexa looks down at the child. She wants to make some gesture of affection, to let Clarke know she’s trying to be more than a begrudging bystander. She lifts her hand and delicately traces Ayla’s cheek.

In sleep, Ayla smiles.

Clarke lets out a soft gasp of delight, eyes dancing to Lexa.

But something tenses in Lexa, and she withdraws her hand.

She doesn’t know how to wield this kind of power.

Clarke pecks her on the cheek, then kisses Ayla’s forehead and settles down into the pillows, curled around both of them.

Lexa stays awake for a long time wondering if this will ever feel normal.

* * *

Lexa goes to visit Pasha again. She is less torn this time, less afraid she is betraying Clarke by seeking Pasha’s counsel.

“How is she?” Pasha asks in a hushed voice as she beckons Lexa inside.

“Better,” Lexa says. Though the word isn’t as solid as the stone beneath her feet, it has some conviction.

“And the child?” Pasha asks once Lexa is seated at her table.

“Clarke takes great comfort in her,” Lexa says, defaulting to her refined diplomacy.

“And you?”

Lexa’s eyes fall to the wood grain of the table.

Pasha takes a deep breath, extending her hand halfway across the table. She doesn’t take Lexa’s hand; some gestures are too bold even for a woman as respected and wise as Pasha.

“Some bonds are instant, Heda,” Pasha says softly. “Some take time.”

Lexa swallows and nods, hoping Pasha is right.

* * *

Lexa’s misgivings give way to hesitant curiosity when she realizes Clarke’s newfound softness. Clarke is not soft in a fragile way; she is soft like earth, sympathetic and loamy. Lexa feels it whenever she is around Clarke now.

She knows Ayla is the reason.

“How did you pick her name?”

Clarke looks up at her, surprised. “The Last Tree.”

Lexa waits for her to explain.

“Ayla means oak. Something that grows from an acorn to the strongest tree in the forest.”

Lexa feels herself bend toward Clarke with love.

Clarke does all things with great love.

(Even things Lexa doesn’t understand.)

* * *

Lexa tries to be warm toward Ayla as much as she can. She holds her when Clarke needs both her hands, sings to her in secret when Clarke is not around, ensures she receives the best care. She hopes affection between them will grow.

And it does, though it pales beside the bond between Ayla and Clarke.

* * *

Lexa learns to recognize Ayla’s cries; which means she needs her nurse, which means she needs to be changed, which means she needs Clarke.

Ayla doesn’t have a cry for Lexa yet.

(Lexa doesn’t think she ever will.)

* * *

The first time Lexa wears Ayla in the sling in public, she feels an unfamiliar surge of pride. People still look at her with reverence and respect, but she catches a few women giving her knowing smiles. She is part of a sisterhood, they think. Perhaps she is. Her shoulders square, chest rising ever so slightly. Beside her she can feel Clarke swelling with happiness.

They are halfway to the temple when a cart nearby overturns, sending a load of bricks crashing to the cobblestones. The noise is startling, and Clarke jumps.

Lexa braces herself for the split, for Clarke to tumble into the chaos of her most violent memories.

Clarke stiffens, hands clenching into fists. Her eyes go wide before she slams them closed. She grits her teeth, and Lexa turns to her, prepared to ground Clarke in whatever comfort she can provide.

But before she can even touch her, she hears Clarke muttering. “It’s over. It’s over, I’m safe now.”

Lexa puts a hand to Ayla’s head in place of touching Clarke. She wants to give Clarke a chance to fight her own demons.

Clarke mumbles to herself for a few moments longer, then opens her eyes. For a moment she’s disoriented, as though awaking from a dream, but she settles, looking around for a moment before turning to Lexa. She gives a shaky smile. “It’s over,” she repeats. “I’m safe now.”

Lexa gives her a reverent nod, smiling calmly, pride continuing to swell where Ayla’s head is pressed to her chest.

Lexa thinks of how Clarke usually is after one of her frights: desperate for comfort of any kind as she clings to Lexa, to a handmaiden, or to Ayla.

“Do you want her?” Lexa asks, nodding down toward Ayla.

Clarke looks at where Lexa’s hand is resting on the round of Ayla’s head. She smiles and shakes her head. “She’s happy where she is.”

Lexa’s smile is sheepish in response. She reaches for Clarke’s hand, grasping a few fingers for a moment as they continue walking toward the temple.

(Whatever salvation or grounding they seek there is overshadowed by their exchange in the street.)

* * *

Ayla isn’t folded into Lexa’s life as effortlessly as she was into Clarke’s, but Lexa does start to feel a subtle squeezing of her heart when Ayla does something new and sweet. Ayla learns to sit without Clarke’s hand to steady her, she lifts her toes to her mouth to suck, she laughs in response to the face of alarm Lexa makes the few times she tries to change her diaper. Ayla laughs at the oddest things: the sound of a door slamming or Clarke dropping her fork during dinner. She cries at the oddest things too: the wind, the sound of cats meowing, a blanket falling off the couch.

Lexa is alarmed the first time Ayla cries when she’s taken from her arms. She didn’t think herself an object of comfort.

Lexa tells Clarke about it in bed that night, and Clarke beams at her.

“She knows,” Clarke hums.

Lexa quirks an eyebrow.

“That you’re her nomon,” Clarke clarifies.

The word startles Lexa. Of all the titles she bears, _mother_ is not one she ever thought would fit her.

Pushing the discomfort away, she leans over to kiss Clarke, melting them into the sheets, dissolving any titles but _lover_ and _wife_.

* * *

Ayla has favorite foods, favorite textures, favorite people now. Lexa is one of those favorite people. As Ayla starts to make new noises and more complex facial expressions, Lexa sees a person start to peek out from her alien form. She has humor and fear and curiosity and everything else that makes people who they are.

For the first time, Lexa imagines Ayla growing into a girl, and eventually into a woman.

(Lexa might prefer she stay an infant, forever innocent and sweet.)

* * *

Ayla’s hair grows quickly, falling into her eyes. Clarke snips the curly ends off, tucking them in a tin.

When Clarke isn’t looking, Lexa takes a tuft of the hair and ties it in a knot. She stitches the knot into the lining of her coat.

On days she tires of her duties, she worries the knot and thinks of the world she wants to leave behind for Ayla.

(She knows this means Ayla is hers as much as she is Clarke’s now. They’re a family. But she can’t say it aloud. She’s not ready.)

(Not yet.)

* * *

Lexa’s most loyal guard, Daro, dies suddenly and tragically in a hunting accident. Lexa is shocked at how pained she is, how instantly she misses his presence around her. She sees to all his arrangements, insisting he be given a hero’s funeral. When she inquires about his survivors, her advisors grow even more somber. “One small boy, orphaned now. His mother died in childbirth.”

Lexa thinks of that particular horror, one of only a few unknown to her, and feels a pang. She goes to Daro’s house to pay her respects. She is surprised to see the child there. He is no more than five, with olive skin and spiky black hair sitting on the floor under the window playing with a set of smooth, flat stones.

She freezes in the doorway, captivated by his meditative concentration amidst the mourners. Around him people mumble and whisper and cry, yet he remains focused on stacking the stones, carefully so they don’t fall, blocking out the pain around him.

Lexa feels herself carried toward him. She senses wisdom in his childlike face. If she didn’t know better, she would have thought he was a nightblood. But a small scab on his knee indicates his blood is the same color as Clarke and Ayla’s.

Lexa sits cross legged before him, watching his face as he concentrates. When the stack of stones he is building topples over, he wrinkles his brow for only a moment before trying again.

He already bears the patience and wisdom of a scholar or healer.

Lexa watches him for a long time before he looks up at her. She is startled by the emotion that rests there. She had wondered if he was unaware of his father’s death, but his eyes indicate he knows. At such a young age, he knows sorrow, just as Lexa knows sorrow, however far in the past.

Lexa almost doesn’t dare speak to him for fear of dislodging whatever keeps him from weeping.

“What’s your name?”

The boy swallows. “Pax.”

“Hei, Pax.” The air seems to evaporate in Lexa’s lungs after she says his name.

He places one stone before him before looking up at her again. This time, it is his innocence that shines brighter than his sorrow.

“What’s your name?”

It’s Lexa’s turn to swallow.

She can’t remember the last time someone asked her name. It feels like another lifetime. Everyone knows who she is. Even people who have never seen her face.

(It feels good to be unknown, even to one person.)

“Lexa,” she says.

“Did you know my dad?” Pax asks.

Lexa nods. “He worked for – We worked together.”

“Oh.” Pax looks heavy as he places another stone on his stack.

Lexa thinks of all the things she might say to comfort him, but she doesn’t know how to comfort a child bigger than Ayla.

Instead, she reaches forward, hand pausing over one of Pax’s stones, asking permission.

Pax nods, and she lifts it to place on his stack.

Together they build a small tower of stones. Pax grins when Lexa places the last stone on top, a quiet triumph. Lexa smiles back.

The light is fading, and she doesn’t want to leave, but she knows Clarke will wonder where she is if she isn’t home for supper. She is torn.

“Would you like to come have dinner with me?”

Pax nods, as though it is perfectly normal to be invited to dinner by a stranger he’d just met.

One by one, they take the stones down, setting them in a small pile by the wall for another day. When they are done, Lexa stands, giving Pax a tentative smile as she turns toward the door. She pauses in the doorway to see if he is following.

Instead she feels a small, dusty hand slide into hers.

Her heart squeezes the same way it does for Clarke and Ayla.

Her instinct is to yank her hand away from Pax, to cut any connection to someone who has such an instant effect on her. But she can’t. Her heart won’t let her.

She brings Pax to the tower, ushering him into the room where they take their supper. She introduces him to Clarke, who is holding a sleeping Ayla on her shoulder. Clarke gives a polite smile before her eyes fall down to the handclasp Lexa still hasn’t let go. Her smile wavers, then widens, and she looks back up at Lexa.

Clarke knows.

They eat quietly, Pax asking a few questions about the food and the tower. His questions indicate he doesn’t know who Lexa is. Clarke and Lexa smile at each other over his innocence.

Lexa sees that Pax is given a comfortable bed and a guard for the night, with instructions to wake her if he needs anything. She hovers over him, tucking blankets up to his chin. Once he lies still, she pauses. It seems odd to leave him there so unceremoniously.

So she sings to him one of the songs she sings to Ayla. As she does, his eyes droop closed.

She turns to leave and sees Clarke in the doorway, leaning gracefully and smiling softly, having rocked Ayla to sleep in her nursery. She looks tired, but she is glowing. Lexa feels caught, embarrassed by her instant affection for a strange child.

Lexa sweeps past her, going into Ayla’s nursery to place a kiss on her forehead as she does every night.

Clarke waits in the hallway and says nothing, but her smile is steady. They return to their bedroom to change into their nightgowns. They slip into bed and Clarke curls into Lexa, warmer and softer than ever.

“Thank you,” she hums, tracing the fading lines of the tattoo on Lexa’s arm.

“Hm?”

“For bringing Ayla a brother.”

Lexa isn’t startled this time. Clarke has always seen her heart.

She takes a breath. Now that she understands, she owes Clarke an apology.

“I’m sorry it took me so long to love our daughter.”

Clarke shivers and pulls back. Her eyes glisten with tears.

“You’ve never called her that before.”

Lexa feels guilty for it. She nods as a promise to say it more often. Ayla is her daughter, she her nomon.

She lifts her hand to catch a tear that falls.

She has one more new word for Clarke.

“ _Seingeda_ ,” she whispers.

Clarke lifts her eyebrow, asking Lexa to translate. Her Trig still needs some work.

Lexa leans forward, kissing Clarke’s mouth softly. She pulls away just enough to whisper, “Family.”

 


End file.
